Post by Myles on Feb 10, 2012 23:39:27 GMT -5
GENERAL
Full Name: Myles (in Rivain and every place that is not Tevinter)), Miloatrix Nikator Lycaon (Tevinter)
Race: Mostly Human
Age: 25
Gender: Male to the point of absurdity
Sexual Orientation: Does it move? Is it still warm? Then yes, Myles has probably vigorously humped it at one time or another. Perfectly pansexual for your pleasure and convenience. Oh come now, don’t judge. When you spend a long enough time as a wolf, she-wolves begin to look awfully attractive.
Birthplace: Batigh, a lovely little town about sixty miles due east of Dairsmuid, spread rather thin down the foothills of a certain mountain slope. It’s a beautiful place, great for siring bastards, nearly always warm and full of lovely people with much more liberal attitudes towards varying amounts of clothing....
Residence: A bed in a group house in Batigh, the Lycaon estate in Asariel, a small place in Minrathous, several dozen brothels and inns across Thedas, a number of caves, gutters, abandoned ruins, and on certain days, a few very, very high trees. Of all of them, Myles favorite is this particularly grand old oak tree in southwestern Nevarra, it's got a lovely view.
Affiliation: The only person Myles is accountable to is Myles. To some he is a member of the Resolutionists, to others, an agent of the Minrathous Circle, a shaman in a small Rivani village, a trickster spirit, or perhaps just a shiftless vagabond dressed in queer, ragged clothing.
Occupation: Bruxo (Shapeshifter/Blood Mage), Magister
Religion: Amoral egocentricity. Myles does as he wishes and this is the whole of the law. Oddly enough this style of governance has a very fair legal system, it usually involves evisceration, oft times followed by dancing naked under the moon covered in steaming blood.
COMBAT
Class: Mage
Character Stats:
Strength: 0
Dexterity: 0
Willpower: 1
Magic: 4
Cunning: 1
Spells:
- Walking Bomb (Tier 1)
- Death Syphon (Tier 1)
- Virulent Walking Bomb (Tier 2)
- Drain Life (Tier 1)
- Glyph of Paralysis (Tier 1)
Gear: The Bereskan’s Hide - some portion of this garment is still recognizable as a very well constructed Magister’s robe, made of fine materials, done in a sleeveless style, and of course, most importantly, heavily enchanted. However, the similarities end there. Myles despises robes with a passion, they’re hardly subtle and they lack proper... mobility. To that end, through the rather liberal application of a very sharp blade, Myles has converted it into an open vest of sorts, with a nice cotton tunic underneath
The Dread Wolf’s Teeth - The trickster true overcomes even the greatest obstacles, especially when those obsacles happen to be other tricksters. Forged from an odd, white variety of volcanic aurum, the Dread Wolf’s teeth are two long daggers, blades that have tasted blood on many occasions and now hunger for more with nearly as much voracity as their master.
The Raptor’s Cowl - a simple hood with a less than simple function, allowing Myles to see the far distant as though it were close at hand, and above all else, keep his head warm. One must have one’s priorities in order.
The Clasp of the Cannibal Serpent - a belt fabricated to resemble a serpent that devours its own tail is pI draw blood. The Raptor’s Cowl shows me the way, and the Cannibal Serpent girds my loins and holds a number of odds and ends, both arcane and mundane, and varied enough to make any hedge witch proud. I’ve been told I oft times look like a homeless vagabond, though personally I’ve never seen a wastrel walk about in such heavy enchantments. The clothes are loose and tattered, because clothing and tree and shrubbery do not get along well with one another. The colors are faded, but the runes are strong. It’s all nonsense in the end, anyway, half of the grand game is finding ways to take them off....
CHARACTERISTICS
Appearance: The first thing noticed is the clothing, frayed and odd, but worn as though they were royal silks, or as though clothes didn’t matter in the slightest, as though only the body beneath them were important. Trousers, tunic, that odd sort of vest, each clean, but worn, and utterly irrelevant. Next comes the face, boyish and handsome, scruffy and almost always wearing some flavor of a smile. Features as soft as that couldn’t possibly wish you harm, gentle as they are, despite the few scars.... A bit odd, yes, one of his ears pierced with two golden bands along the helix, inconsequential in some places, full of meaning in others, but adding to the building fascination. By this point, the gaze falls into the eyes, and truly, that’s the only term appropriate, the gaze and the mind... fall. Pale, nearly white, and possessed of a searing sort of intensity, those eyes sink their teeth into flesh and hang on doggedly. Some eyes are the window to the soul, and some eyes lead to the abyss. Sometimes they’re sultry, searching, stroking without touching, glorifying the object of their interest, venerating it and cherishing it, until it drowns, until the will of one loses itself within the currents and eddies of another.
Yet for all their terrible beauty, those eyes are fractured, offering an incomplete image with each passing moment, one of four aspects. Folk rarely make it past the first. By then, they’ve noticed that the lad is built well for a mage, possessed of a wiry strength that would’ve made him a fine warrior or rogue in another life. Sinewy strength ripples beneath flesh covered in a scattering of intricate tattoos and still more scars. Those markings are a story in and of themselves, a few them almost resembling something like animals... but also something more than simple beasts, as though in dark hued inks, someone attempted not only to capture the beast's image, but its past, its future, its wants, its needs... as though they’d sewn a soul into flesh. Of course, a thorough examination is difficult, by the time that much flesh is exposed, if the viewer isn’t moaning or bleeding, Myles is having a very odd sort of day.
Personality: Every so often, the small folk and peasantry will dream up some race of mystical creatures or demons, with a morality all their own, less black and white and more blue and orange. Cruel and kind, polite and rapacious, beings ruled by whim, caprice and nothing else. From such myths come the stories of the small gods, the trickster spirits, the grumkins and snarks and fae, and with each new age, without fail, come the same sorts of stories. Men keeping making them, because something deep within them, some primal sort of collective psyche, their genetic memory... remembers, remembers that every so often, men like Myles are born. More a force of nature than a mortal, judging Myles. actions or whims through any traditional sort of belief system is quite akin to berating a hurricane for blowing over a tree. A beautiful disaster, caught somewhere between the glorious and the monstrous, Myles wanders on through the world, and nothing is left unchanged in his wake. Life is something to be seized, touched, tasted, caressed, smelled, and fucked in seven different directions. Myles knows what fear is, it’s just something that happens to other people.
HISTORY
He went native, that’s what they called it, that’s what they snickered behind his back, though none would dare accuse him of such to his face. Few Magisters had ever made such an exhaustive study of Rivani magical tradition, and fewer still had spent so many years entrenched in foreign ways. Such influences couldn’t be healthy, though no one gave such thoughts voice. One did not accuse a Lycaon, an old and powerful family who’s legacy extended back and back through the blurry fields of time, to the days of Archon Thalsian. And even if one did not respect lineage, one certainly respected a man who’d slain more mages in open combat than most Templars. Of course there were whispers, those that questioned the source of Magister Taxius Alcaeus Lycaon’s power, whispers of queer magics, some foreign, some dark, all bound up in blood. But Taxius was a man of sound and fury, and whispers never last long when faced with roars. Quick of temper and quick to take his pleasure where he could find it, Taxius embodied a certain ruthlessness that made a man successfully in the arena of Imperial politics, and his eventual rise to Senator hardly came as a surprise. However, a roaring lion in a den of vipers, rarely remains preeminent forever, and their venom soon became too much for him to bear. Hounded out of Minrathous by plot after plot, a number of duels that seemed so prone to going horribly awry and not only killing Taxius opponents, but the innocent, watching progeny of Senator so and so, and a sudden vigilance amongst normally tame and compliant, Imperial Templars, saw Taxius serving the remainder of his tenure as Senator, in self-imposed exile.
He relished the opportunity.
Some whispers were right, Taxius had gone native, he’d been born native. Tevinter just wasn’t enough. For all his bluster, all his skill, all his magical prowess, his ruthlessness and base sort of cunning, Taxius would have never risen much farther as a politician, even had he been a more subtle sort of man. He knew the bars of a cage when he saw them, no matter how prettily they were gilded. The power that so many of his fellow Magisters craved, Taxius paid no heed to, he was not the sort to measure power with word, unless those words could summon up enough arcane energy to crack mountains. Even in this respect, Taxius strayed from the norm. He collected arcane knowledge with an avarice suitable for a Tevinter, but that knowledge never went towards some grand, torturous plot to overthrow the established order. Feeling the crackle of raw magic surge through his veins was enough, the seductive thrill of it, the heady release of tension that came with the casting of each spell. It was not as though Minrathous were devoid of magical knowledge, new ways to push beyond the limits of reality. But in Minrathous, every new advance, every rediscovered ancient tome, came with teeth, those that would force the natural majesty of magic through the sieve of their own pathetic, worldly inventions.
Things were closer to the ground in Rivain. Taxius had never been a very religious man, no more likely to praise the Maker than he was to praise Dumat, but the Rivani world view resonated with something he found vaguely, pleasing. Better a god dwell in the earth, the river, the tree, or the beast, than in some unreachable abode, or in, mad as it was, a high dragon. At least the blessings of the Rivani gods were practical, the fruit that gave nourishment, the beasts that provided meat, the water that sustained life, and... and a woman who pleased him as thoroughly as he pleased her. He’d come to Rivain expecting a great many things, but never an equal, though this was what he found in the dusky woman, the apprentice to her people’s seer, a woman who danced with wolves as gracefully as she danced with people. In time, the young seer bore her strange, foreign, but lovely man, a son and a daughter, and for nearly two decades, the hot lowlands and jungles of Rivain seemed to swallow the young family whole.
Taxius’ contact with the Imperium dwindled to nothing, and from Seere and Kont-arr to Llomeryn, Rivain shuddered with the passage of dark currents. Something shook traditions that had echoed for ages within the thick forest and tropic heat of Rivain, something awoke the unconscious minds of peasants and nobles alike, and for the first time in centuries, they muttered the word, “Changeling....” Something forbidden had occurred within the most remote reaches of the country, something that created an abomination more terrible, than any monster a Templar might slay. Certain gifts are passed down from seer to seer, from woman to woman, because certain things... certain things must not be given to a male child, because certain things were not meant to be. But since when has the forbidden escaped the grasp of a Tevinter?
For nearly two decades, a handful of loyal stewards and maids tended to a lavish estate in Asariel, the ancestral home of House Lycaon virtually abandoned, save a for a few relatives from distant branches. The staff didn’t mind, things were quiet, and the routine was hardly a busy one. All was stable, all was stagnate, all was dead or decaying. The blood came rushing back though, in due time, and the suffering was intense, yet the suffering was sweet, and the suffering reminded them that they were alive. A young man came strolling down the driveway, with the look of some foreign drifter, coming to beg. They would’ve driven him away without a thought, had he not presented certain papers, paper in a handwriting that the older staff still recognized, papers that introduced the lad.
Miloatrix Nikator Lycaon, Scion of House Lycaon, sole rightful heir of Taxius Alcaeus Lycaon, my firstborn son.
Something followed the young man, as he swaggered jauntily into his new home, something that came on strange, creeping feet, that had a taken a journey all the way from the jungles and lowlands of Rivain. It came in slow, cautious steps, sidling through the hearts and minds of men and women, lingering in their whispers, their worries, and in the incidents they could not explain. The year was 9:35 Dragon, when the people of Tevinter first heard the word “Changeling.” Five years have passed, and the world now dances to strange tunes, poised on the brink of a war that will shatter the oldest of foundations.
Some men will dance, and some men will die, as the world tears itself asunder, and in the chaos to come, the Changeling emerges to drink his fill of blood, and keep the music playing, until the whole world goes still.
BEHIND THE MASK
Player’s Pen Name: Sevens
Contact: Feel free to PM me, or shoot me an email at yogkudl@gmail.com
Roleplay Experience: I've been play-by-post RPing for 6 or 7 years now, and writing for 10. We shall not discuss the specific lengths of time I've spent playing DA:O, its DLC, and DA:2, elsewise you'll have cause to section me, and I would not enjoy that. Suffice it to say, we are intimately acquainted.
Language(s): English
How did you find us?: Saw a link on Chronicles of Thedas, decided to do a bit of parallel character development
Roleplay Sample:
Roleplay Sample: Hmm... I must apologize for the length, my writing has thankfully grown a great deal more sinewy over the years, but this is an old favorite, and it deals with something not entirely unlike blood magic, so I felt it was appropriate.
Bump, bump, bump.... Audric shifted slightly. Quite a rough ride on these stone roads, oh perhaps they could have paved them, but then they would've lost that quaint, old world feel. They being the Weir magi responsible for the monstrosity this road lead to. A silver city... really... so ostentatious, hovering on the border of sheer vulgarity. Forus Argenti... ah, a pity these Arbasinian architects in particular hadn't much taste. Audric didn't really care, for one thing was certain: what this glittery city lacked in visual restraint, it most definitely made up for in sheer... population.
Oh hush your drooling for now Audi... sometimes I wish you'd put that silver tongue to more use, at least it might keep you from chattering on in your head. Hmm... wait... I think I've gone wrong somewhere.... You chatter mentally even more when your lips get to moving. Is there no end to it? Perhaps a good coma....
A tiny, furry little body squirmed slightly, adjusting the folds of the cloak as they lay about her mage, making her nest along the crook of his neck. So small, so deceptively fragile, slender and sleek, fur a bit ruffled now with age, light brown giving way to predominant weary gray. An adorable little mouse. What smiles and coos she garnered, often times people thought her a trained pet, not a familiar at all. But people were stupid and prone to believe whatever they liked, and this suited Ms. Jingles just fine.
So cruel Ms. Jingles... while I apologize for rousing you from your nap, I fear our siesta must come to an end. No rest for the wicked you see. Have no fear mon cocette, there's plenty of fun to be had here....
~~~~~
Soren Lodai and his wife Helena were simple enough folk, like a handful of others, they’d paid for safe passage across the wilds on this modest caravan. Soren was a rather twitchy fellow, not due to his age, or any sort of ailment, more due to the large amount of precious coin and gem resting hesitantly in a small satchel underneath his tunic. His rambunctious pup of a son would insist on having his aging parents liquidate their assets and move two hundred miles to his new sparkly home. The aging figure sighed, he wasn’t entirely keen on sharing their small space on the wagon with another, but Helena insisted, besides, who were they to thumb their noses at such a creaking, venerable figure. The old wreck called himself Audi, no title or sobriquet, odd for a fellow that old, yet he insisted on calling his ‘familiar’ Ms. Jingles. Soren wasn’t entirely sold, the little puff of fur could’ve very well been just another trained vermin. He had a nose for magi, always got weird vibes in their presence, but he didn’t catch a single tremor out of this fellow… only a deep, pervading, emptiness, unnerving in an entirely different manner.
The middle-aged trader, soon to be retired doting grandfather, shivered somewhat, Helena giving him a quizzical glance before settling her travel weary gaze at the endless expanses of sand. Soren shivered again, a feeling like a thousand crawling insects writhing over pale flesh. Maybe he was getting vibes after all… he wished, he wished the cloying sensation in his gut was just some supernatural jitter, and not the potent mix of horror and pity that welled within him every time he laid eyes on the ancient creature in the corner across from him. Nut brown skin deeply creased and wrinkled, as though it had been left in a wash for far too long. Eyelids heavy with the bitter fruit of decades. Hair in all the wrong places, a bush above each eye and a jungle hanging from each nostril, but barely even a scant few wisps of alabaster locks on the man’s head, a few valiant strands poking out from underneath his hood.
Would he become like that one day? Soren shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the heat in the arid air around him suddenly more galling than usual. How could the years do that to a body, even in this day an age of miraculous magic? Was he doomed to the same fate? To grow stagnant, and useless, why in God’s name had he agreed to retire! This was all such foolishness! He would not become some shoddy, used up relic; he would not become the world’s next bit of refuse. Soren found his ever darkening musings interrupted by a rather audible yawn, the old soul revealing a half rotted set of teeth, yellowed by remnants of exotic smokes.
“Oh my, my, it seems Ms. Jingles and I nodded off fer quite a bit, always seems to happen after such a fine meal. Your cookin’ is absolutely divine Helena,” Audi broke out into a gap-toothed grin. He aimed a warm gaze at the couple across the way with half open eyes, a clouded gray, things that had seen the storm clouds roll by spring after spring, and finally mimicked their color,” Mighty kind of you all to spare a wretch a bit to eat. I swear my mind’ll up and run off without me soon enough, can’t believe I tottered off without my bundle back in Haver.”
“No need to worry dear sir, we’re more than happy to share. I’m glad you enjoyed it, Valorian hotcakes are my specialty,” Helena beamed at the old foggy and his mouse, her expression almost vapid, if it hadn’t been tinged with such delightful sincerity.
“Well you’ll have to let me repay you.”
“Oh you’re far too kind sir, it was the least we could do,” Soren’s mood brightened somewhat, the rasping, slightly nasal quality of the old man’s voice oddly pleasing. At least awake he didn’t seem so much like a corpse….
“Aww now hush with that nonsense, no good deed goes unpunished,” Audi let loose a hoarse cackle, dry as the dust that clogged the roads, carried on the winds from the great mother deserts all around them,” I’ve kinfolk in Forus Argenti. My girl Elidae, she makes a grand stuffed pheasant, and heaven above Ms. Helena, if you could teach her the trick behind those hotcakes, I’m sure she’d turn her restaurant into a right proper franchise. You reckon your boy can wait for his ma and pa a half hour or so?”
“Well…,” Helena shrugged, offering up a pleading look to her husband.
“I guess we just can’t refuse such a treat,” Soren’s eyes brightened a little, the thought of roast pheasant sending a wakening grumble through his stomach, bulging ever so slightly nowadays, a testament to his growing love of the culinary arts,” We’d be delighted. Our young pup can wait a little while longer.”
“Excellent! Elidae never turned down no chance to see folks happy with her cookin’. Why even when she was a babe-,” A rush of wind flooded the small wagon’s cabin, giving its three occupants a momentary start. Some young buck on a skimmer, speeding past, set for the city gates,” I swear, youngins’ll be the death of us all on those damn contraptions.”
Soren chuckled, his fondness of the ancient badger returning steadily,” I fear you may just be right dear sir.”
The banter continued on jovially, as the wagons of the caravan sauntered through the massive, glistening gates, reaching out with a cheery invitation to its newest arrival, all the while giving them a thorough dose of prying, warding, magics. Audric smirked behind the guise of the elderly fool, their magics were nearly as garish as their city. So defensive, so brusque, as though trying to tinker with the inner workings of the soul with fingers like sausages. So… clumsy. They’d a better chance of shooting down some hot shot fire mage brimming with power, than anything with at least an iota of… subtlety.
Soren and Helena had no chance to take in the beauty of their new home just yet, to gaze at the maddening glittery excess all around them. At the moment, they found themselves bewitched, not by spell or charm, but by mere spoken word. They weren’t the prying sort by nature, but this frail little creature… he could weave a yarn to dodge even the simplest question, feeding these road bored traders with tales equal parts fantastic and mundane.
The city's center came too soon, and alas, the caravan ground to a halt. Audric creaked as he hobbled from his seat, and half stumbled out of the doorway, saved from disgrace only by the Soren’s firm and generous arm. Grins alighted the faces of the couple as they followed their storyteller from their cage, glad to be rid of the necessary evil of dusty roads.
“My, my dear sir, do you tell no truths?” Helena nearly giggled, the euphoria leaving an odd taste in her mouth. It had been some time since she’d felt such infectious joy, such enthralling giddiness. She loved it, she reveled in it, and in both her eyes and those of her husbands, lay the bright glint of a child begging for more.
“Oh, from time to time. But it’s often much less entertainin’,” Audric smiled, speaking over his shoulder as he hobbled through the dense crowds of the market district, a voice so raspy and gentle still finding its way through the raucous calls of merchants and the angered shouts of customers,” But I’ll tell you a thing. People’s rarely lookin’ for the truth, even when they ask for it. Now… what people want, is a story, somethin’ worth rememberin’!”
“Ha, perhaps that’s so. Though I doubt a great deal of sound business was ever conducted based on that principle,” Soren quipped, as eager as his wife now to follow this old man’s yarns. The joy in him began to override sensibilities instilled in his bones since birth. He could taste the sweetness in this old codger’s words, and it lead them ever forward by the tip of their tongues. The appointment with his son… could wait. The pleadings of common sense… could be left aside for the moment. Such things simply didn’t matter as much… not right now.
So yet again, you insist on playing with your food Audric, this is hardly necessary.
No… perhaps not necessary, but surely its courteous Ms. Jingles. They’re about to give me so much… it seems only proper that I give them a few moments of bliss.
Bah! You wicked little thing, I’ll not digest your lies so easily. You’ve no thought towards courtesy or propriety!
Ms. Jingles! I’m injured!
Oh hush, you’ve a taste for courtesy then, but you’d never let it drive any action in particular.
True….
I know you too well mon frère, I doubt you care to pay them for what they’re about to grant you. You just like the look on their faces when the blow strikes.
He, he… perhaps…. So perceptive mignonette.
I try.
They were deeper now… a block or so past the bustle of the open market, deeper towards the alleys… a semblance of privacy now. Audric didn’t necessarily need seclusion… but it added to the drama a great deal, and for this particular play, he’d require a bit of distance from the stage. The couple were still prattling on, and from a shallow hovel of his mind, he was responding to them, still trailing honeyed words and quaint country phrases down their ear canals. But the true Audric… he was elsewhere at the moment, somewhere in the crux of reality, where things were far more brightly outlined, the realm of the Hunter. Perfect… The smell of the air had changed subtly… grown slightly ranker. He could nearly taste it, the rank and acrid sweat of two human sows, so ripe for the taking. They prattled onwards, talking and talking and talking…. But soon, soon they would be quite.
Oh gods, but it does taste sweet…. the thought rose almost mournfully from the little furry body curled against Audric’s shoulder, filled with longing and need. Even Ms. Jingles couldn’t resist the thirst for too long. The old man’s voice faded to nothingness, and within Audric the noises were drowning. More than silence of step. Now breaths came silently, mouth slightly open, the air winding its way into his chest, filling each lung, and deeper still into his diaphragm. Alas, even thoughts faded to silence, no more time for plans or schemes, deductions or assumptions. Now for action. The couple was confused, why had their lovely prattle ended, why wasn’t that soothing sound still-
A body like greased mercury, quicksilver riddled with lightening. There was movement. The symphony, muscles flowing into each moment of existence with oiled precision. The frailty of the ancient wreck vanished entirely, replaced now by a fearsome grace. The wife… Helena, had come forward, come forward to console her enchanter. The hand plunged deep, striking the center of the chest. A rending of flesh playing upon the melodies of the harsh cracking of the breastplate. In deep now, but still moving, the first drop of blood yet to even strike the ground. An organ now, beating furiously one moment, exploding the next as the ravaging limb tore through all in its path. It was pressing out the back now, obliterating the tower of bone that stood at the rear, and sundering flesh and cloth alike. It continued, thrusting towards the man, and the first drop blood had still not struck the ground. So close now, passing through clothing as though it were tissue paper, almost at that supple veil of living flesh renewed. It stopped.
Audric nearly hissed with the pain of it, so easy, so near, the death of another dancing on the edges of his tongue. Yet he stopped. An orgasmic shudder wracked his frame as he drank it in, the woman’s dying breaths, the feeling of her end, the pained, open-mouthed shock emblazoned upon her features, and mirrored on her husband’s face. So long the wait… yet so worth it. Audric took it, took everything , every last fevered drop of the woman’s life, channeling it, warping it and breaking it. It was his now, his to do with as he pleased, stolen and violated, his….
Soren could not move, could not breath. No thoughts passed through his mind, he could not mourn. Frozen first by shock, and then by something far darker, and within the space of a single heartbeat, his flesh was no longer his own. Audric’s body shook with mirth, buried as he was, elbow deep in Helena’s corpse, with the strings already attached to the puppet that was her husband…. Five symbols appeared at the tips of Audric’s bloodied hand, burning their likeness into Soren’s flesh, first a bright scarlet, soon drying to crimson, before rotting to black. Helena’s corpse convulsed once, twice, and then grew still, drying upon the arm that had run it through, before bursting into dust. Audric withdrew his hand, Soren remained still.
“I hope you’ve enjoyed the prelude, to this, my latest symphony. Let us now move into the piece de resistance, and revel in the full body of this preciously crafted work,” Audric spoke to no one in particular, employing his theatrics for theatrics’ sake alone. The rasping drawl of the old man fled, replaced by a slightly fluid baritone, waxing upon the higher notes, an exotic flare tainting its heels, almost something sultry. One hand could not remain free from gore while the other basted in it, and so Audric’s left hand came to his face, gouging the wrinkled flesh and tearing at it mercilessly. Sickening squelches proceeded several large pops and cracks, and the guise came away in bloody chunks, thrown to the ground and left their to rot. Amidst the bodily turmoil, the hands had already rid themselves of their gnarled and age spotted appearance, fresh and new now, smooth and stained crimson.
With the old man dead, a young man stooped and picked up a shred of the former Helena’s clothing, wiping face and hair of excess filth. Audric stood erect, reborn once more, a new creature now, so rarely seen, the original model. A thing of wiry muscle, wrapping about a light frame in sinewy cords of steel. Flesh fair, and slightly pale from the dozen or so rebirths it underwent every fortnight. Short, almost silken, chocolate brown hair crowned the head in gentle waves. Handsome features, and a smooth baby face that made him seem much younger than he appeared… forgettable. Yet, in the midst of that sea of every day, was a burn scar. Such a fascinating blemish. Long healed, but still showing that definite distortion brought on by intense heat raging against such fragile skin. It formed a perfect isosceles triangle, the base curving along this young demon’s cheek bone, a few inches below his right eye… The two longer sides of the triangle pointed to the left, their narrow girth spanning the bridge of his nose and meeting in a point underneath his left eye. No attempt had been made to conceal it, while even the simplest contrivance of his body’s magic could of banished it entirely. It remained a reminder, a trophy.
Eyes bored into Soren’s frozen features now. Gone were the misty hooded things of gray, tired and dilapidated. These pools of molten gold burned with fevered intensity, bright with a dangerous cunning. He unhooked the small satchel from underneath Soren's tunic, relieving him of a wealth he'd no longer have use for. He spoke once more,” Time for you to go now, precious puppet, don’t forget you cue.”
Soren stared blankly for a moment, jaw slack in his skull, before straightening himself stiffly, turning, and leaving back towards the market square with no sound or protest. Audric smiled, and sank to his haunches, leaning back against one of the alley’s walls, soft chuckles breaking through the simper hammered onto his face.
Do you know Ms. Jingles… why so many maleficar are caught and killed before they can ever enact their masterstrokes?
Yes.
Oh… well….
But I like to hear you say it.
Ah, very well! You see… within each schemer lies the compulsion to gloat over the kill. I’m no fool, I won’t claim immunity from it, it grabs at the heart and soul of every conspirator, and it’s mutterings are so divine. Sometimes the devil finds a way to satiate his urge successfully, most end up getting killed for it. The controllers… the masterminds, they like to climb to the highest possible vantage point, to see their puppets dance. The feelers, the ones who love the squelch of blood on their hands… they like to be close, they like to stand in the crowd as it happens, to feel the warm splash of blood or bile. There are a dozen others, and each has his own little methods. Unfortunately, the maleficar is hardly an original concept nowadays… and not all guards and police forces are ridiculously dense… they know where to look now.
So how do you sate your thirst, yet evade capture? For once Ms. Jingles seemed truly interested.
Ah… with the simplest method imaginable… I let myself become the victim…, her faithful mage mused.
So you’re a masochist? Or do you honestly have some foolish pretension towards guilt?
Oh no mignonette, I’m not fond of pain… however, there do exist certain intoxicating sensations… that dwarf such potential pains. He, he, the man’s almost arrived at his destination. Indulge with me for once, and see how this overture plays out from the eyes of the musician….
The fingers of Audric’s right hand danced a merry jig, each twitch a word, each contortion a phrase, each gesture a movement, and the puppet danced on his strings.
===
Soren was amongst the crowds now. The banter of trader and merchant pressed down around him, yet he pressed through those seas of awakened humanity, driven by a task that was not his own. As he stepped upon the large square’s center, he froze. His features leapt from their near bovine placidity, growing agitated and distraught. He groped sporadically at his body and face, a low mewling spilling from his lips. A moment of silence, and then a scream. It tore from Soren’s lungs, a beast in and of itself, howling impotent fury. A deafening roar, broken basso spilling throughout every corner of the silver city, an inhuman sound, like the death knell of some great, old god. The market grew silent. Such fantastic noise should of struck the creature at the market’s center mute, and it would have, had it not been for the puppeteer furiously reconstructing each damaged cord.
The hushed crowd backed slightly away from the man who’d produced such chilling utterance, allotting him a barrier of a half dozen feet. Soren spoke, voice still broken, but fueled by an unholy desperation, granting it power, granting it depth.
“Walking dead of Forus Argenti! What is the matter with you, all of you! Is there no escaping this blight that rears its head upon us all…. I will give to you the words of a prophet! Take them, steal them, all of you! The air is filled with madness, can you not taste it! There is no refuge from it! No relief!”
There were murmurs amongst the crowds now, stirrings of an ancient, primal beast that feed in the collective unconscious of every man, woman, and child. Panic. This madman was ranting… but in those fevered shouts, that echoed along shimmering walls, there were the bitter wailings of truth.
“Merchants, kings… lords and magi, rob us of every coin, drag from us every good thing, tear away our very humanity. Their soldiers and thugs march and would rend the very earth from beneath our feet! Yet none of these, who stake their claims as mortal gods, can give value to a single life. They can never return what has been taken, they can only devour, only consume!”
The businessmen grew silent now, fearing what was to come, what the rise of the inner group beast would mean for their shops and their wares. The guards perked now, what was once nothing but a chilling curiosity, had all at once become far more dangerous. Soren’s voice grew louder.
“These bastard gods would seek to rob you of your teeth! They will calm you, and cajole you. They will silence you with honeyed word and empty promise! Their blood has infected us all, this life, this existence, it is farce, it is stupidity, it is vanity and a striving after the wind! Dear Gods above, we have endured this cycle for countless generations. Must this be our fate! Let no more false words pass your lips, the time for deception has fled, the late hour is upon us!”
The guards pressed forward with renewed determination, but the going only grew more difficult now. There were jostles from the crowds now, harsh words, shoves. They could hear curses and growls, against the deranged man, against the guards, against each other. The beast was gnawing on its chains, just a little more, almost free. Soren’s voice reached a fever pitch, howling out his damnations now.
“And all along these hallowed, guardian towers of our souls… we gave authority to spoiled nobles and princes, callous to our calls and desires! The sultry whores have become our mother goddesses, and they track their filth along every walkway. The bare soles of our feet burn, as we are forced to tread in their wake. We the servants, we who cry out from the depths! Can’t you see it! It’s at our gates! What was once a distant threat, is a beast thrashing against our walls! A roaring thing, seeking to annihilate us! They are amongst us even as I speak! Our Enders! The ones who will bring us all to the gates of infinity! The heavens are screaming!”
The city guards were almost on top of the ranting man now, shouting halts and orders to desist, panting with their exertions. Soren sank to his knees, another demon’s battle cry tearing itself from his very bowels. He screamed, and he screamed, and he screamed. He erupted, body exploding, releasing a fountain of sacrilegious red upon the crowd. Not a red of fluid blood, but a blood that had hardened, and become a billion needles, tearing through the crowd, seeking out new flesh, as the last vestiges of their puppet prison was torn, violently from the physical world. Most of the guards died instantly, along with many of the crowd who’d been nearest to the short lived prophet, a million blades finding their marks, tiny slivers of deadly sanguine that slid into flesh, stone, and steel indiscriminately.
The people of the market square scattered, screams echoing up towards the heavens, a dozen bird familiars plummeting from the sky, as their masters lie slain. The writhing masses, pushed, and shoved, and trampled, and fought, anything to get away from the nameless horror that had taken seat in their bellies. The beast howled its victory songs through their screams, it was free, and there was panic.
===
Audric let out a hearty gale of laughter and clapped vigorously, springing to his feet.
A fine first overture, n’cest pas? Oh Ms. Jingles, wait until you see the second!
You mean your drama isn’t over?
Oh no no, Ms. Jingles! We’ve much to go yet. The banshee storm of tainted blood has many uses. Oh the shrapnel killed plenty, but it takes a few thousand of those little devils to bring a full grown man down. No, the true beauty of it… is the fear. It will be the fear that damns them… for every sliver, carries this glorious disease of the false prophet, and now dozens of them bear my mark. The second stanza… shall be glorious indeed mignonette!
Oh hush your drooling for now Audi... sometimes I wish you'd put that silver tongue to more use, at least it might keep you from chattering on in your head. Hmm... wait... I think I've gone wrong somewhere.... You chatter mentally even more when your lips get to moving. Is there no end to it? Perhaps a good coma....
A tiny, furry little body squirmed slightly, adjusting the folds of the cloak as they lay about her mage, making her nest along the crook of his neck. So small, so deceptively fragile, slender and sleek, fur a bit ruffled now with age, light brown giving way to predominant weary gray. An adorable little mouse. What smiles and coos she garnered, often times people thought her a trained pet, not a familiar at all. But people were stupid and prone to believe whatever they liked, and this suited Ms. Jingles just fine.
So cruel Ms. Jingles... while I apologize for rousing you from your nap, I fear our siesta must come to an end. No rest for the wicked you see. Have no fear mon cocette, there's plenty of fun to be had here....
~~~~~
Soren Lodai and his wife Helena were simple enough folk, like a handful of others, they’d paid for safe passage across the wilds on this modest caravan. Soren was a rather twitchy fellow, not due to his age, or any sort of ailment, more due to the large amount of precious coin and gem resting hesitantly in a small satchel underneath his tunic. His rambunctious pup of a son would insist on having his aging parents liquidate their assets and move two hundred miles to his new sparkly home. The aging figure sighed, he wasn’t entirely keen on sharing their small space on the wagon with another, but Helena insisted, besides, who were they to thumb their noses at such a creaking, venerable figure. The old wreck called himself Audi, no title or sobriquet, odd for a fellow that old, yet he insisted on calling his ‘familiar’ Ms. Jingles. Soren wasn’t entirely sold, the little puff of fur could’ve very well been just another trained vermin. He had a nose for magi, always got weird vibes in their presence, but he didn’t catch a single tremor out of this fellow… only a deep, pervading, emptiness, unnerving in an entirely different manner.
The middle-aged trader, soon to be retired doting grandfather, shivered somewhat, Helena giving him a quizzical glance before settling her travel weary gaze at the endless expanses of sand. Soren shivered again, a feeling like a thousand crawling insects writhing over pale flesh. Maybe he was getting vibes after all… he wished, he wished the cloying sensation in his gut was just some supernatural jitter, and not the potent mix of horror and pity that welled within him every time he laid eyes on the ancient creature in the corner across from him. Nut brown skin deeply creased and wrinkled, as though it had been left in a wash for far too long. Eyelids heavy with the bitter fruit of decades. Hair in all the wrong places, a bush above each eye and a jungle hanging from each nostril, but barely even a scant few wisps of alabaster locks on the man’s head, a few valiant strands poking out from underneath his hood.
Would he become like that one day? Soren shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the heat in the arid air around him suddenly more galling than usual. How could the years do that to a body, even in this day an age of miraculous magic? Was he doomed to the same fate? To grow stagnant, and useless, why in God’s name had he agreed to retire! This was all such foolishness! He would not become some shoddy, used up relic; he would not become the world’s next bit of refuse. Soren found his ever darkening musings interrupted by a rather audible yawn, the old soul revealing a half rotted set of teeth, yellowed by remnants of exotic smokes.
“Oh my, my, it seems Ms. Jingles and I nodded off fer quite a bit, always seems to happen after such a fine meal. Your cookin’ is absolutely divine Helena,” Audi broke out into a gap-toothed grin. He aimed a warm gaze at the couple across the way with half open eyes, a clouded gray, things that had seen the storm clouds roll by spring after spring, and finally mimicked their color,” Mighty kind of you all to spare a wretch a bit to eat. I swear my mind’ll up and run off without me soon enough, can’t believe I tottered off without my bundle back in Haver.”
“No need to worry dear sir, we’re more than happy to share. I’m glad you enjoyed it, Valorian hotcakes are my specialty,” Helena beamed at the old foggy and his mouse, her expression almost vapid, if it hadn’t been tinged with such delightful sincerity.
“Well you’ll have to let me repay you.”
“Oh you’re far too kind sir, it was the least we could do,” Soren’s mood brightened somewhat, the rasping, slightly nasal quality of the old man’s voice oddly pleasing. At least awake he didn’t seem so much like a corpse….
“Aww now hush with that nonsense, no good deed goes unpunished,” Audi let loose a hoarse cackle, dry as the dust that clogged the roads, carried on the winds from the great mother deserts all around them,” I’ve kinfolk in Forus Argenti. My girl Elidae, she makes a grand stuffed pheasant, and heaven above Ms. Helena, if you could teach her the trick behind those hotcakes, I’m sure she’d turn her restaurant into a right proper franchise. You reckon your boy can wait for his ma and pa a half hour or so?”
“Well…,” Helena shrugged, offering up a pleading look to her husband.
“I guess we just can’t refuse such a treat,” Soren’s eyes brightened a little, the thought of roast pheasant sending a wakening grumble through his stomach, bulging ever so slightly nowadays, a testament to his growing love of the culinary arts,” We’d be delighted. Our young pup can wait a little while longer.”
“Excellent! Elidae never turned down no chance to see folks happy with her cookin’. Why even when she was a babe-,” A rush of wind flooded the small wagon’s cabin, giving its three occupants a momentary start. Some young buck on a skimmer, speeding past, set for the city gates,” I swear, youngins’ll be the death of us all on those damn contraptions.”
Soren chuckled, his fondness of the ancient badger returning steadily,” I fear you may just be right dear sir.”
The banter continued on jovially, as the wagons of the caravan sauntered through the massive, glistening gates, reaching out with a cheery invitation to its newest arrival, all the while giving them a thorough dose of prying, warding, magics. Audric smirked behind the guise of the elderly fool, their magics were nearly as garish as their city. So defensive, so brusque, as though trying to tinker with the inner workings of the soul with fingers like sausages. So… clumsy. They’d a better chance of shooting down some hot shot fire mage brimming with power, than anything with at least an iota of… subtlety.
Soren and Helena had no chance to take in the beauty of their new home just yet, to gaze at the maddening glittery excess all around them. At the moment, they found themselves bewitched, not by spell or charm, but by mere spoken word. They weren’t the prying sort by nature, but this frail little creature… he could weave a yarn to dodge even the simplest question, feeding these road bored traders with tales equal parts fantastic and mundane.
The city's center came too soon, and alas, the caravan ground to a halt. Audric creaked as he hobbled from his seat, and half stumbled out of the doorway, saved from disgrace only by the Soren’s firm and generous arm. Grins alighted the faces of the couple as they followed their storyteller from their cage, glad to be rid of the necessary evil of dusty roads.
“My, my dear sir, do you tell no truths?” Helena nearly giggled, the euphoria leaving an odd taste in her mouth. It had been some time since she’d felt such infectious joy, such enthralling giddiness. She loved it, she reveled in it, and in both her eyes and those of her husbands, lay the bright glint of a child begging for more.
“Oh, from time to time. But it’s often much less entertainin’,” Audric smiled, speaking over his shoulder as he hobbled through the dense crowds of the market district, a voice so raspy and gentle still finding its way through the raucous calls of merchants and the angered shouts of customers,” But I’ll tell you a thing. People’s rarely lookin’ for the truth, even when they ask for it. Now… what people want, is a story, somethin’ worth rememberin’!”
“Ha, perhaps that’s so. Though I doubt a great deal of sound business was ever conducted based on that principle,” Soren quipped, as eager as his wife now to follow this old man’s yarns. The joy in him began to override sensibilities instilled in his bones since birth. He could taste the sweetness in this old codger’s words, and it lead them ever forward by the tip of their tongues. The appointment with his son… could wait. The pleadings of common sense… could be left aside for the moment. Such things simply didn’t matter as much… not right now.
So yet again, you insist on playing with your food Audric, this is hardly necessary.
No… perhaps not necessary, but surely its courteous Ms. Jingles. They’re about to give me so much… it seems only proper that I give them a few moments of bliss.
Bah! You wicked little thing, I’ll not digest your lies so easily. You’ve no thought towards courtesy or propriety!
Ms. Jingles! I’m injured!
Oh hush, you’ve a taste for courtesy then, but you’d never let it drive any action in particular.
True….
I know you too well mon frère, I doubt you care to pay them for what they’re about to grant you. You just like the look on their faces when the blow strikes.
He, he… perhaps…. So perceptive mignonette.
I try.
They were deeper now… a block or so past the bustle of the open market, deeper towards the alleys… a semblance of privacy now. Audric didn’t necessarily need seclusion… but it added to the drama a great deal, and for this particular play, he’d require a bit of distance from the stage. The couple were still prattling on, and from a shallow hovel of his mind, he was responding to them, still trailing honeyed words and quaint country phrases down their ear canals. But the true Audric… he was elsewhere at the moment, somewhere in the crux of reality, where things were far more brightly outlined, the realm of the Hunter. Perfect… The smell of the air had changed subtly… grown slightly ranker. He could nearly taste it, the rank and acrid sweat of two human sows, so ripe for the taking. They prattled onwards, talking and talking and talking…. But soon, soon they would be quite.
Oh gods, but it does taste sweet…. the thought rose almost mournfully from the little furry body curled against Audric’s shoulder, filled with longing and need. Even Ms. Jingles couldn’t resist the thirst for too long. The old man’s voice faded to nothingness, and within Audric the noises were drowning. More than silence of step. Now breaths came silently, mouth slightly open, the air winding its way into his chest, filling each lung, and deeper still into his diaphragm. Alas, even thoughts faded to silence, no more time for plans or schemes, deductions or assumptions. Now for action. The couple was confused, why had their lovely prattle ended, why wasn’t that soothing sound still-
A body like greased mercury, quicksilver riddled with lightening. There was movement. The symphony, muscles flowing into each moment of existence with oiled precision. The frailty of the ancient wreck vanished entirely, replaced now by a fearsome grace. The wife… Helena, had come forward, come forward to console her enchanter. The hand plunged deep, striking the center of the chest. A rending of flesh playing upon the melodies of the harsh cracking of the breastplate. In deep now, but still moving, the first drop of blood yet to even strike the ground. An organ now, beating furiously one moment, exploding the next as the ravaging limb tore through all in its path. It was pressing out the back now, obliterating the tower of bone that stood at the rear, and sundering flesh and cloth alike. It continued, thrusting towards the man, and the first drop blood had still not struck the ground. So close now, passing through clothing as though it were tissue paper, almost at that supple veil of living flesh renewed. It stopped.
Audric nearly hissed with the pain of it, so easy, so near, the death of another dancing on the edges of his tongue. Yet he stopped. An orgasmic shudder wracked his frame as he drank it in, the woman’s dying breaths, the feeling of her end, the pained, open-mouthed shock emblazoned upon her features, and mirrored on her husband’s face. So long the wait… yet so worth it. Audric took it, took everything , every last fevered drop of the woman’s life, channeling it, warping it and breaking it. It was his now, his to do with as he pleased, stolen and violated, his….
Soren could not move, could not breath. No thoughts passed through his mind, he could not mourn. Frozen first by shock, and then by something far darker, and within the space of a single heartbeat, his flesh was no longer his own. Audric’s body shook with mirth, buried as he was, elbow deep in Helena’s corpse, with the strings already attached to the puppet that was her husband…. Five symbols appeared at the tips of Audric’s bloodied hand, burning their likeness into Soren’s flesh, first a bright scarlet, soon drying to crimson, before rotting to black. Helena’s corpse convulsed once, twice, and then grew still, drying upon the arm that had run it through, before bursting into dust. Audric withdrew his hand, Soren remained still.
“I hope you’ve enjoyed the prelude, to this, my latest symphony. Let us now move into the piece de resistance, and revel in the full body of this preciously crafted work,” Audric spoke to no one in particular, employing his theatrics for theatrics’ sake alone. The rasping drawl of the old man fled, replaced by a slightly fluid baritone, waxing upon the higher notes, an exotic flare tainting its heels, almost something sultry. One hand could not remain free from gore while the other basted in it, and so Audric’s left hand came to his face, gouging the wrinkled flesh and tearing at it mercilessly. Sickening squelches proceeded several large pops and cracks, and the guise came away in bloody chunks, thrown to the ground and left their to rot. Amidst the bodily turmoil, the hands had already rid themselves of their gnarled and age spotted appearance, fresh and new now, smooth and stained crimson.
With the old man dead, a young man stooped and picked up a shred of the former Helena’s clothing, wiping face and hair of excess filth. Audric stood erect, reborn once more, a new creature now, so rarely seen, the original model. A thing of wiry muscle, wrapping about a light frame in sinewy cords of steel. Flesh fair, and slightly pale from the dozen or so rebirths it underwent every fortnight. Short, almost silken, chocolate brown hair crowned the head in gentle waves. Handsome features, and a smooth baby face that made him seem much younger than he appeared… forgettable. Yet, in the midst of that sea of every day, was a burn scar. Such a fascinating blemish. Long healed, but still showing that definite distortion brought on by intense heat raging against such fragile skin. It formed a perfect isosceles triangle, the base curving along this young demon’s cheek bone, a few inches below his right eye… The two longer sides of the triangle pointed to the left, their narrow girth spanning the bridge of his nose and meeting in a point underneath his left eye. No attempt had been made to conceal it, while even the simplest contrivance of his body’s magic could of banished it entirely. It remained a reminder, a trophy.
Eyes bored into Soren’s frozen features now. Gone were the misty hooded things of gray, tired and dilapidated. These pools of molten gold burned with fevered intensity, bright with a dangerous cunning. He unhooked the small satchel from underneath Soren's tunic, relieving him of a wealth he'd no longer have use for. He spoke once more,” Time for you to go now, precious puppet, don’t forget you cue.”
Soren stared blankly for a moment, jaw slack in his skull, before straightening himself stiffly, turning, and leaving back towards the market square with no sound or protest. Audric smiled, and sank to his haunches, leaning back against one of the alley’s walls, soft chuckles breaking through the simper hammered onto his face.
Do you know Ms. Jingles… why so many maleficar are caught and killed before they can ever enact their masterstrokes?
Yes.
Oh… well….
But I like to hear you say it.
Ah, very well! You see… within each schemer lies the compulsion to gloat over the kill. I’m no fool, I won’t claim immunity from it, it grabs at the heart and soul of every conspirator, and it’s mutterings are so divine. Sometimes the devil finds a way to satiate his urge successfully, most end up getting killed for it. The controllers… the masterminds, they like to climb to the highest possible vantage point, to see their puppets dance. The feelers, the ones who love the squelch of blood on their hands… they like to be close, they like to stand in the crowd as it happens, to feel the warm splash of blood or bile. There are a dozen others, and each has his own little methods. Unfortunately, the maleficar is hardly an original concept nowadays… and not all guards and police forces are ridiculously dense… they know where to look now.
So how do you sate your thirst, yet evade capture? For once Ms. Jingles seemed truly interested.
Ah… with the simplest method imaginable… I let myself become the victim…, her faithful mage mused.
So you’re a masochist? Or do you honestly have some foolish pretension towards guilt?
Oh no mignonette, I’m not fond of pain… however, there do exist certain intoxicating sensations… that dwarf such potential pains. He, he, the man’s almost arrived at his destination. Indulge with me for once, and see how this overture plays out from the eyes of the musician….
The fingers of Audric’s right hand danced a merry jig, each twitch a word, each contortion a phrase, each gesture a movement, and the puppet danced on his strings.
===
Soren was amongst the crowds now. The banter of trader and merchant pressed down around him, yet he pressed through those seas of awakened humanity, driven by a task that was not his own. As he stepped upon the large square’s center, he froze. His features leapt from their near bovine placidity, growing agitated and distraught. He groped sporadically at his body and face, a low mewling spilling from his lips. A moment of silence, and then a scream. It tore from Soren’s lungs, a beast in and of itself, howling impotent fury. A deafening roar, broken basso spilling throughout every corner of the silver city, an inhuman sound, like the death knell of some great, old god. The market grew silent. Such fantastic noise should of struck the creature at the market’s center mute, and it would have, had it not been for the puppeteer furiously reconstructing each damaged cord.
The hushed crowd backed slightly away from the man who’d produced such chilling utterance, allotting him a barrier of a half dozen feet. Soren spoke, voice still broken, but fueled by an unholy desperation, granting it power, granting it depth.
“Walking dead of Forus Argenti! What is the matter with you, all of you! Is there no escaping this blight that rears its head upon us all…. I will give to you the words of a prophet! Take them, steal them, all of you! The air is filled with madness, can you not taste it! There is no refuge from it! No relief!”
There were murmurs amongst the crowds now, stirrings of an ancient, primal beast that feed in the collective unconscious of every man, woman, and child. Panic. This madman was ranting… but in those fevered shouts, that echoed along shimmering walls, there were the bitter wailings of truth.
“Merchants, kings… lords and magi, rob us of every coin, drag from us every good thing, tear away our very humanity. Their soldiers and thugs march and would rend the very earth from beneath our feet! Yet none of these, who stake their claims as mortal gods, can give value to a single life. They can never return what has been taken, they can only devour, only consume!”
The businessmen grew silent now, fearing what was to come, what the rise of the inner group beast would mean for their shops and their wares. The guards perked now, what was once nothing but a chilling curiosity, had all at once become far more dangerous. Soren’s voice grew louder.
“These bastard gods would seek to rob you of your teeth! They will calm you, and cajole you. They will silence you with honeyed word and empty promise! Their blood has infected us all, this life, this existence, it is farce, it is stupidity, it is vanity and a striving after the wind! Dear Gods above, we have endured this cycle for countless generations. Must this be our fate! Let no more false words pass your lips, the time for deception has fled, the late hour is upon us!”
The guards pressed forward with renewed determination, but the going only grew more difficult now. There were jostles from the crowds now, harsh words, shoves. They could hear curses and growls, against the deranged man, against the guards, against each other. The beast was gnawing on its chains, just a little more, almost free. Soren’s voice reached a fever pitch, howling out his damnations now.
“And all along these hallowed, guardian towers of our souls… we gave authority to spoiled nobles and princes, callous to our calls and desires! The sultry whores have become our mother goddesses, and they track their filth along every walkway. The bare soles of our feet burn, as we are forced to tread in their wake. We the servants, we who cry out from the depths! Can’t you see it! It’s at our gates! What was once a distant threat, is a beast thrashing against our walls! A roaring thing, seeking to annihilate us! They are amongst us even as I speak! Our Enders! The ones who will bring us all to the gates of infinity! The heavens are screaming!”
The city guards were almost on top of the ranting man now, shouting halts and orders to desist, panting with their exertions. Soren sank to his knees, another demon’s battle cry tearing itself from his very bowels. He screamed, and he screamed, and he screamed. He erupted, body exploding, releasing a fountain of sacrilegious red upon the crowd. Not a red of fluid blood, but a blood that had hardened, and become a billion needles, tearing through the crowd, seeking out new flesh, as the last vestiges of their puppet prison was torn, violently from the physical world. Most of the guards died instantly, along with many of the crowd who’d been nearest to the short lived prophet, a million blades finding their marks, tiny slivers of deadly sanguine that slid into flesh, stone, and steel indiscriminately.
The people of the market square scattered, screams echoing up towards the heavens, a dozen bird familiars plummeting from the sky, as their masters lie slain. The writhing masses, pushed, and shoved, and trampled, and fought, anything to get away from the nameless horror that had taken seat in their bellies. The beast howled its victory songs through their screams, it was free, and there was panic.
===
Audric let out a hearty gale of laughter and clapped vigorously, springing to his feet.
A fine first overture, n’cest pas? Oh Ms. Jingles, wait until you see the second!
You mean your drama isn’t over?
Oh no no, Ms. Jingles! We’ve much to go yet. The banshee storm of tainted blood has many uses. Oh the shrapnel killed plenty, but it takes a few thousand of those little devils to bring a full grown man down. No, the true beauty of it… is the fear. It will be the fear that damns them… for every sliver, carries this glorious disease of the false prophet, and now dozens of them bear my mark. The second stanza… shall be glorious indeed mignonette!
Password: ******* (Checked and Correct)
